


Performance Art

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Art

“I have to say, John, I really just. Well. I can’t see the appeal.”

 

That wasn’t precisely true, of course. At the moment, the appeal lay in the way John was blushing and licking his lip, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, thoroughly discomfited.

 

John picked at a frayed spot on his sleeve. “It’s just something I used to do with my ex, and it was— well, it wasn’t even my idea at first, but.”

 

“But you liked it,” Sherlock said, finally dropping his eyes to the object in his hand. It looked harmless enough: a clear plastic cylinder with a ring extending from one end. Sherlock fiddled with the small padlock. “And you want me to, ah. _Control_ you, then. With… this.”

 

John hissed in a breath, a flush spreading up his neck and over his cheeks. “Look, we don’t have to, we can—“

 

“Show me how it works.” Sherlock was surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth, cool and impassive. A chastity belt (and not even a proper belt, at that, just this little piece of plastic) seemed directly contrary to the _point,_ really, but he had to admit the contradiction of it had him a little curious.

 

Even more curious was the way John’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with his fly. He stepped out of his trousers and, after only a moment’s hesitation, his pants followed; Sherlock was surprised to see that he was half-hard, just from the conversation.

 

Oh, maybe this _did_ have the potential to be interesting, after all. 

 

John was standing in just his shirt, staring at the device in Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t think you’re going to fit,” Sherlock said derisively, cocking one eyebrow. 

 

“I need, um, some… some powder or… well, we probably don’t have a pair of stockings,” John said with a nervous giggle. “I’ll just, um.” He turned and started up the stairs to retrieve a bottle of talcum powder from under the sink.

 

When John returned Sherlock handed him belt. “Show me, then,” he said, and John bit his lip. His trip up and down the stairs seemed to have got his circulation going somewhat, and with the help of the powder he was able to ease himself into narrow tube. He looped the attached ring around his balls and ran the padlock through the clasp to hold the whole thing in place, though he didn’t lock it.

 

Sherlock bent closer to examine it, running his finger along hard plastic encasing John’s shaft. “How long can you wear it?”

 

John swallowed. “Well, there’s no— I mean, indefinitely, if you’re careful after showing, but we never went more than three or four days. I can show you before we—“

 

Sherlock deftly twisted the body of the padlock and snapped it shut, one-handed. “We’ll see,” he said, turning back to his laptop.

 

John gaped at him. “Sherlock, you can’t just… I mean, we didn’t…..”

 

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth quirk up, but he kept his eyes on the screen. “It seems I actually _can_ ,” he said, “seeing as I just did. Giving you time to prepare would rather defeat the purpose, don’t you think? Give me some credit, John, of course I have the keys,” he continued, in anticipation of John’s next move, “you kept them in the same drawer.” A sigh. “Yes, John, _all_ of them.”

 

John’s face was bright red and he seemed to be having some trouble catching his breath; from the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see him shifting his weight uncomfortably. _Surely he wasn’t_ aroused by— _oh, but it seemed he was (or would have been, were he still able to be, Sherlock amended)._

 

For all he wasn’t a genius, John’s mind was often so very delightfully _interesting_. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. 

 

“Might as well put your trousers back on,” he said flatly, and John complied without a word.

 

**

 

It was two days later as they were finishing dinner that John exploded at him. “Jesus, Sherlock, you can’t just… do _nothing_.”

 

A moment of genuine confusion: “Can I not? Isn’t that the whole point?” He’d been thinking John was enjoying this, that the part of him that enjoyed bending his will to Sherlock’s had been getting off on his indifference (and a good thing at that—hard to be anything _but_ indifferent, as things were).

 

“No, you have to….” John trailed off, at a loss. Sherlock was watching his eyes.

 

Ah, there it was, that dark flash, that _challenge_. It wasn’t passive denial he was after, then; he wanted something active, he wanted a _game_.

 

That, Sherlock understood. All too well, in fact. 

 

He pushed back from the table. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said over his shoulder. “When you’re done with the clean-up, I think you should come join me.”

 

**

 

The next afternoon, Sherlock found his indifference melting away.

 

It had started with the two of them sitting on the sofa, afternoon drivel playing on the telly. Sherlock had been mildly surprised to feel John’s mouth on his neck, his lips moving against the spot behind his ear. “Want you,” he heard John mumble, and it had twisted something low in his stomach to hear it.

 

It ended on the sofa, too, John with his hands cuffed behind him, cock free for the first time in three days while Sherlock moved his hand along it with agonising slowness. 

 

John had held up remarkably well, under the circumstances; he was still answering questions after thirty-two minutes, though his voice was broken and breathy and he’d stopped opening his eyes to look at Sherlock ten minutes earlier. He was hot and hard in Sherlock’s hand, and between that and the steady flow of pre-cum that was coating it, Sherlock had come near to forgetting himself more than once. 

 

At thirty-five minutes, Sherlock tried again. “Tell me what you want,” he said into John’s ear, and John had simply moaned and pressed his hips back against the sofa cushions, breathless, and it was like something had opened up in Sherlock’s mind and he _understood_.

 

“Tell me,” he said again, “tell me and I’ll let you.” 

 

It was a lie. It slipped over Sherlock’s lips without a second thought.

 

John took a deep shuddering breath. “Christ, Sherlock, I want to— fuck, I’m going to—“

 

And Sherlock stopped, pulled his hand away. John gasped and opened his eyes, blinking blearily at the ceiling, breath coming heavy through his open mouth. 

 

“God, John, you’re beautiful,” Sherlock told him, “so beautiful like this. Don’t, not until I tell you. You want me to tell you, don’t you?” John nodded, breathless. “Good, so good.” He reached out one finger and ran it lightly along the underside of John’s cock. John shuddered and closed his eyes, turning his head into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

Sherlock waited a full ten minutes before he wrapped his hand around John and began to stroke again, pressing his face into his hair. “ _John_ ,” he said as John began to writhe under his touch, and couldn’t say anything at all.

 

**

 

Five days into the experiment (as Sherlock had come to think of it), and he _wanted_.

 

Sherlock had brought him right up to the edge several times without letting him tip over, then left him alone to cool down and put him back in the belt. He’d released John’s hands then, and as soon as he did so John was pressing him back against the sofa and devouring Sherlock with his mouth, hot and frantic, and ever since then Sherlock had found it impossible to get out of his mind: that hot, desperate mouth on his skin, on _him_.

 

John was getting ready for bed when Sherlock slipped into his room. He had the key to the belt in his pocket (the copies hidden where John would never find them), and John grew instantly still when he saw it.

 

Sherlock could see the question in his eyes, the one he didn’t dare ask. The answer was _no_ , of course, but Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him that, not yet.

 

“Do a good job,” he said, opening his belt, “and maybe. If you’re lucky.”

 

“Oh God,” John said, he then he was pressing Sherlock back against the wall, grinding against him even though Sherlock knew he could hardly feel it. “You don’t know how much I want you. You have _no idea_ —”

 

“Show me,” Sherlock said, surprised at how low his voice sounded. John knelt awkwardly and Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, wishing it were long enough to grasp properly, some distant part of him aware that it was probably for the best that it wasn’t.

 

It was quick and sloppy and Sherlock was pretty sure his heart had stopped, just for a moment. When he could trust his legs again he manoeuvred them both over onto the bed. John’s eyes were hopeful, but Sherlock simply rolled him over so John’s back was pressed against his chest and wrapped his arms around him.

 

“Sherlock—“ John began.

 

“I don’t want to hear you beg,” Sherlock said (and it was true enough, if only because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand it, that he wouldn’t end it then, and he didn’t want it to end). “If you do, it stays on longer.”

 

John gave a small shudder and a sigh and pressed his back tighter against Sherlock, and Sherlock let his hand drift down, slip under the waistband of John’s pyjamas. He ran his hand down the inner crease of John’s thigh and lightly stroked his balls ( _Christ_ , they were hot, _heavy_ , they must be aching), and John breathed out a soft sob. Sherlock moved his hand along the plastic belt to where John’s foreskin pressed against the end, feeling the slick wetness there.

 

“You’re _dripping_ with it,” he breathed against the back of John’s neck. “You don’t know what this does to me, knowing you’re _like this_ ”—he wrapped his hand around the plastic sheath—“for me.”

 

“Sherlock, _please_ ,” John said before he could stop himself.

 

Sherlock pulled his hand away, a look of genuine (well, almost genuine) disappointment on his face. “I said no begging,” he told John. “That’s another day.”

 

John took a long inhale and held it for a moment before speaking. “How long,” he said, not quite managing to make it a question. He tried again. “How much longer?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, feeling John’s hair brush his nose. “One day more than I’d planned, now. I’m not telling you; don’t want to spoil the surprise. But I have a target in mind.”

 

He didn’t, though. _As long as you can_ , he thought, and didn’t say it.

 

 

**

 

It had been a long week. For both of them, Sherlock suspected. He was finding the whole thing almost impossibly distracting; he wanted to know how John would react, what he’d _do_. There was something about the way he looked at Sherlock, now—a sort of combination of jealousy and resentment and _need_ —and Sherlock couldn’t imagine giving it up, now that he knew.

 

There was something, too, about the way John moved under his hands, how pliant he was, how quickly Sherlock could reduce him to a quivering, non-verbal state. He liked John in all his quiet competence, but— yes, he wanted this too, wanted to take him apart. Wanted in to that private part of John no one else saw.

 

Nine days after he’d put the belt on John for the first time, Sherlock had John naked and stretched out on the bed, wrists chained to the headboard with two pairs of cuffs, ankles knotted to the legs of the bed with rope. He’d had John out of the belt for nearly two hours, just teasing and playing with his cock, running his fingers over the insides of John’s thighs, bringing him right to the edge again and again. When he sensed John was nearing the point of no return he’d pull away entirely, turning his attention to his laptop. He’d wait for John’s breathing to steady, for his hips to stop jerking; then he’d resume his attentions to John’s body, slow at first, ramping him up. 

 

It was fascinating, what Sherlock could learn about John this way, and he didn’t even protest, he just _let him_ , and the more he allowed, the more Sherlock wanted. Wanted him, wanted to know what it felt like to have him when John _couldn’t_ —

 

He almost went too far, had to pull back at just the last second, and John let out a frustrated groan. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said when he got his breath back. “I swear, if you don’t—“

 

“Stop,” he commanded, and John’s mouth snapped closed. Sherlock moved so he was lying over John, suspending his clothed form just above John’s naked one, his stomach just brushing the head of John’s cock. He brought his hips down, let John feel his arousal against his upper thigh. John hissed and dragged his eyes open to meet Sherlock’s.

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said, surprised at the low sound of his own voice. “God, John, you’re so amazing like this. I want to— I want to know how it feels to be inside you while you’re wearing it. If you let me, I’ll take you out and let you use my mouth.” He brought the instrument in question down, pressing his lips against John’s neck, and John sighed and closed his eyes.

 

“Yes, Sherlock, _fuck_ ,” he breathed. “God, yes, _please_.”

 

Sherlock decided to let the slip go, this time. He had other things on his mind. He picked up the sheath, ran one finger of his other hand up John’s erection, contemplating. It would never fit like this.

 

“Ice,” he said decisively, standing up and moving toward the door.

 

John’s eyes snapped open. “What? Sherlock, no, if you just leave it a minute, it will—“

 

“I have no intention of waiting,” Sherlock said, and John gave a small, wry chuckle.

 

“I suppose you don’t,” he said, and there was a biting edge to his tone, but Sherlock was already halfway to the kitchen.

 

John groaned and swore and tried to move away from the ice, but Sherlock worked methodically, one hand keeping a firm grip on his hip. Eventually it did its job and Sherlock was able to get him locked securely in the belt again. 

 

He untied John’s ankles but left his wrists tethered; John looked surprised, but didn’t protest. His expression was wary—they’d never done this when he was anything other than fully aroused—but Sherlock slicked up his fingers and began to work him open slowly. John twitched and moaned when Sherlock brushed his fingers against his prostate, and twice Sherlock had to stop for fear that he’d somehow manage to come while wearing the belt (he didn’t _think_ it was possible, but wasn’t sure enough to risk it; he didn’t want to ruin it, not now) and eventually he had John open to three fingers, ready for more.

 

Sherlock moved so that John’s feet were on either side of his hips, bent knees pointed upward. Sherlock undid his belt and pressed his trousers and pants down over his hips. He grabbed the lube and slicked himself up (and _oh_ , the way John’s eyes followed the movement of his hand on his own cock _did things_ to him, he was going to have to be careful not to let this all end too soon), pressed slowly inside. John was warm and tight and oversensitive and his hips kept jumping as though he were trying to pull away; Sherlock pinned him with his body weight and pressed in deeper. It felt impossibly good, better than he’d have expected, and when he started to move it was only with an effort of will that he managed to keep it slow.

 

John was gasping, long shuddering breaths, and for a moment Sherlock thought it was hurting him, but then he closed his eyes and said _please_ in that tone Sherlock was growing to love, and the tight curl at the base of his spine was spreading, and—

 

When his brain started working again he was slumped forward, his forehead resting against John’s knee, still inside him. He gingerly pulled himself away, did up his trousers, and padded to the bathroom on still-shaky legs, returning with a wet flannel which he used to clean John up. He worked slowly, alternating the cloth with trailing kisses along his hips and inner thighs. John made small appreciative noises and pressed his legs wider and Sherlock couldn’t give this up, not yet, he _couldn’t_.

 

He’d promised, though. But he hadn’t promised _that_ , not precisely, and Sherlock could be clever when he needed to be.

 

He unlocked John’s cuffs and helped him to his feet, recuffing his hands in front of him (and John let him do that, too, because Sherlock hadn’t taken the belt off yet, could still change his mind). He led him over to the door and had him stand against it. Grabbing a length of rope, he looped it through the chain between John’s wrists and ran it up and over the door, drawing his arms overhead. He brought the ends of the rope down on the other side of the door, running one end below the lowest hinge and wrapping the other around the door hand, then under the bottom of the door itself. John’s eyes narrowed when Sherlock guided his feet apart and tied the ends of rope around his ankles, forcing him to keep his stance wide and off-balance, keeping him pinned against the wood surface.

 

When he knelt and undid the belt, John let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock stood and pressed his body against John’s, running his hands up his arms to hold his hands, pressing a rough kiss against his mouth. John returned it with intention, teeth pulling at Sherlock’s lip to try to prevent him from pulling away.  Sherlock did anyway, of course, stepping back and kneeling in front of him.

 

“How long’s it been,” he said, “since you asked me?”

 

John blinked at him for a moment. Sherlock thought he probably had good reason to be distracted, given that said reason was currently at roughly his eye level. “Since I… oh. Four days.” He sounded proud of himself.

 

Sherlock quirked his mouth. “That’s how long you have, then. Four minutes. Starting now.”

 

John’s eyes narrowed briefly. “What? But you—“

 

“I said you could use my mouth. How successful you are at it is up to you.” Sherlock edged forward so that he was within John’s range of motion. “Three minutes and fifty-four seconds.”

 

John made a noise of protest but his cock twitched, either from the words themselves or the heat of Sherlock’s breath. 

 

 _Oh god, he’s still getting off on being teased_ , Sherlock thought, and felt himself stir in response. “You’re fascinating,” he said, and truly meant it. “Here, I’ll even help you.” He used his hands to guide John between his lips, then braced them against his own knees, waiting, leaving the rest up to John.

 

He’d said John could use his mouth, but not that he’d help by providing any pressure or even necessarily wrapping his lips around him. Sherlock could feel the heat of him where he slid against his tongue, taste his pre-come, but at the forty-five second mark it was clear John wasn’t going to make it. His balance was too unsteady, his range of motion too limited, and Sherlock wasn’t providing any friction. 

 

When he finally pulled back John turned his eyes skyward, letting his head fall back against the door and muttering a string of profanities Sherlock had never heard him use before. His cock was dark purple against the pale skin of his stomach.

 

 Sherlock thought he’d never seen anything so lovely as John, hard and wanting and entirely in his hands. 

 

He stood and ran his hands through John’s hair, ran his thumbs over his jawline and down his chest, pressed his lips against the top of John’s head. “I want to own you,” he breathed into his hair.

 

John gave an exhale that could have been a sob and tugged at his wrists in frustration, turning his face to press it against Sherlock’s neck. His voice, when he found it, was low and ragged, broken-sounding. “You do. You know you… you always have.”

 

 _Not like this_ , Sherlock thought, _never like this._

 

Out loud, he just said: “ _Mine_.”

 

**

 

They had a case, two days of (figuratively) chasing down leads and (literally) chasing down suspects, and at the end of it they were sprawled in the living room with takeaway curry, laughing and exhausted and happy. 

 

Then the adrenaline receded and they fell into bed, exhausted, pyjama’d limbs tangled together, Sherlock’s arm wrapped protectively around John’s chest. Sherlock was nearly asleep when he felt John take a deep, shuddering breath against his chest and twist his body so they were facing one another.

 

“You were brilliant,” John whispered. “God, the things I want to do to you right now.” He felt John’s hand on his hip, slipping under his waistband and sliding down, teasing at his entrance; he pressed back against it before he could stop himself.

 

“ _John_ ,” he breathed, because yes, he wanted that too, wanted to be the one to lay himself open, just for a while, but he couldn’t allow that of himself. John wasn’t the only one being denied. 

 

Sherlock forced his eyes open, found John’s. “Are you all right?” he asked, and the fingers stilled.

 

“Yes. No. I don’t— I don’t _know_ ,” John said with a bitter laugh, turning his face away.

 

Sherlock ran his hand along John’s spine, up and down, a soothing motion. “Tell me,” he said softly.

 

“I trust you,” John said immediately, “mostly. Sometimes. It’s just that I don’t know if you’re—“ John broke off and slid his hand around to cup Sherlock in his palm, and Sherlock felt himself stir under the touch. John’s took a shuddering inhale and turned to face him again. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

 

Sherlock was rubbing small circles in the small of John’s back. “I know,” he said, adding: “You may ask,” because John had been brilliant, too, because he could see the need in his face.

 

John’s eyes were shut tight, and Sherlock could see him trying to hold in the question. In the end, though, the thought of not knowing was too much, and the question came out too loud in the dark room: “When?”

 

 _When it breaks you_ , Sherlock thought.

 

“Soon,” he said, and it was a promise.

 

**

 

The next Saturday afternoon, John was back on the bed in the same position, spread-eagle, cuffed and tied. Sherlock had lost count of how long he’d been teasing him. He would have thought he’d grow bored of it eventually, but no, it wasn’t possible, John’s reactions were fascinating. He somehow managed to both press into and pull away from Sherlock’s hand in the same movement. 

 

Sherlock had let him beg this time and the way his voice was breaking and catching was beautiful. Sherlock was moving languorously, cupping the top of his shaft and running his hand up and down, avoiding the sensitive underside, when John snapped.

 

“Stop,” he said forcefully, jerking at his wrists hard enough to bruise. “Just fucking _stop_ , put the bloody thing back on or let me finish. I’m done, I can’t.” His chest was heaving. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eye.

 

Sherlock pulled back, face neutral, careful not to betray the fact that he had expected this, that it was precisely this reaction he’d been hoping to provoke. 

 

He waited until John’s breathing had slowed, then leaned across him to unlock his right wrist, letting the cuff hang empty from the bedpost.

 

“It’s up to you,” he said quietly, watching John’s face. “I’m going to leave for an hour. During that time, you may do what you wish. If I come back and find you didn’t get yourself off, there’s a reward. If you have, though, it’s over, we’re through with this. You’ve made your decision, and the belt stays off.”

 

Sherlock could track the way John’s brain was working through the implication of this by the expression on his face. Sherlock would be able to tell, of course—no way to clean himself up properly, with just one hand free—but there would be nothing to stop him, either, and no distractions from the temptation.  

 

“What’s the reward?” John asked at length, almost sullenly, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.  

 

The question alone told Sherlock what he needed to know: John didn’t really want their game to stop. 

 

“The belt goes back on,” Sherlock answered, “and tomorrow, you get to fuck me.”  Sherlock knew how that word sounded in his mouth; he watched John’s eyes darken, saw the twitch of his cock, and knew it was having the anticipated effect. 

 

“But there’s a catch,” John said, eyeing him apprehensively. “You’ll, I don’t know, tie me to the bed and go stand on the other side of the room, or—“

 

Sherlock interrupted him, standing smoothly, not wanting him to follow that train of thought too far (John was right, of course, as far as it went, there both was and wasn’t a catch to this). “That’s all I’m saying about it. Now it’s your call.” 

 

And with that, Sherlock left him.

 

He didn’t go away entirely, though. Of course he didn’t. He left the door open just enough that he could look in without John noticing. 

 

At first, it really seemed as though he were going to give in, his hand drifting toward and away from the midline of his body, though he never quite touched himself. Eleven minutes in, though, even these movement stopped. After that, John didn’t seem to be doing much of anything at all. Sherlock couldn’t see his face, not without John realising he was watching, so he had no choice but to wait. He busied himself on his laptop for the remainder of the hour, then made his way back into his room to check on John.

 

The sight that met him caught him entirely by surprise. John had done something entirely unanticipated: he had somehow managed to get his free hand back into the cuff Sherlock had left hanging from the bedpost, and closed the circlet around his own wrist.

 

It was entirely counter to the point of the exercise, of course, and had Sherlock anticipated it he would have removed it altogether. But the thought of John doing that, making that decision—deliberately restraining himself—was one of the most erotic things Sherlock could imagine.

 

“You’re _brilliant_ ,” he breathed, and it was then he saw John’s face. His brow was furrowed and he looked, if not precisely angry, then not far from it. 

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember the steps it took to bring him to the bed, but he found himself sitting on it nonetheless, his hand on the side of John’s face. John’s eyes were shut, his skin flushed, and yes, Sherlock had been right - there was moisture at his temple, the track of dried tears. Sherlock brushed at it with his thumb; John turned and pressed his face against his hand.

 

“John? Are you all right?”

 

John nodded against Sherlock’s palm. “Yeah,” he said, after a pause, “I am. I just… _fuck_ , I wanted to, but I didn’t want to… I didn’t want you to _stop_ ,” he said, clenching his jaw. “It doesn’t actually—I mean. _Sherlock_ , I just… I don’t know.”

 

Sherlock waited a long minute before speaking, cradling John’s head in his hand. 

 

“You did well, John,” he said finally, stroking John’s forehead with his thumb. “Really well.”

 

Sherlock thought of the box at the back of his closet, what he had planned. _He’s either going to murder m_ e, he thought, _or I’ve timed this just right._

 

**

 

The next day passed slowly, Sherlock trying to pretend he didn’t notice John watching him when John thought he wasn’t looking. John was antsy and irritable and Sherlock waited until midafternoon before he decided it was time.

 

John was scowling at his laptop and didn’t even protest when Sherlock simply walked up in front of him and pushed it closed. He’d been waiting, then, biding his time just as Sherlock had been, a fact which Sherlock found oddly reassuring.

 

“Come on, then,” he said, not looking over his shoulder, and John followed him back into his bedroom without a word. 

 

Sherlock had set the box from his closet in the centre of his quilt but ignored it, first sitting on the edge of the bed to undress John, then standing to undress himself. John stood stiffly, seemingly self-conscious, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

 

Sherlock sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Just one last thing,” he said, handing it to John. “Here.”

 

John opened it, cautiously, and Sherlock forced his face to remain expressionless. He half expected John to laugh, half expected John to hit him, when he saw what was inside: a strap-on dildo with a harness designed to fit over precisely the type of belt John was wearing. 

 

What he hadn’t been expecting was the look of outright confusion John gave him. “You’re going to use… this,” he said, frowning at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all, John. _You’re_ going to use it.” John’s frown deepened into a scowl. “I want to see if you’re— see what you’ve learned,” Sherlock continued, waving his hand derisively, “without any… distractions.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Make it good, and I’ll know you’re ready. There’s lube in the top bureaux drawer.”

 

He waited.

 

“I knew it, I bloody _knew it_ ,” John muttered, but Sherlock heard him pull the drawer open, heard him step into the harness, and he suppressed a smile. There was a part of him that couldn’t believe John was actually going to go through with this, that he would be willing to do this for Sherlock, endure the humiliation and frustration even in his anger. It was beautiful.

 

John knelt up on the bed, helped Sherlock wiggle down, used the lube to slick up his fingers. Sherlock was already half hard and getting harder, and John ran his hand over his cock, letting out a breath that could almost have been a sob when he felt it jump under his touch. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s hips and back, down over his thighs, and pushed Sherlock’s knees up so his feet were flat on the bed. He coated his fingers in the lube and let his hand trail down until he could begin to work Sherlock open, one finger at a time. 

 

Sherlock fought the urge to move, forced his eyes remain open, watching John’s face.

 

John had two fingers buried in Sherlock to the first knuckle when he brought his other hand up and started to stroke Sherlock’s shaft, his own hips twitching in tiny movements, unconsciously imitating the pace of his hand. 

 

Sherlock counted his breaths, focusing his attention there, and allowed six long inhales before he told John to stop. “Use _that_ ,” he said, indicating the silicon that stood out from John’s hip at an obscene angle. “Now, John.”

 

John blushed, a hot red flush spreading up from his chest and over his throat to cover his cheeks, but he reached for the lube. He lined the silicone head up with Sherlock’s entrance, grabbed his hips, and began to _push_ , slowly. 

 

It wasn’t nearly as good as having John inside, of course, but the expression on John’s face when he realised—really came to understand that even _this_ would provide him no stimulation, when he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward with a frustrated moan—sent a jolt straight down Sherlock’s spine to his groin.

 

John’s hips moved evenly but his breath came ragged, and it took Sherlock longer than it should have to realise John was speaking, mumbling Sherlock’s name and _please_ under his breath, over and over like a mantra. That, combined with the brush of the dildo against his prostate and the feeling of John’s hands clenching and unclenching against his hips and inner thighs, brought Sherlock over the edge more quickly than he would have liked, his release coating his stomach. 

 

John pulled out, slowly, his face red, his eyes bright and shining with frustrated tears, and Sherlock had to close his eyes against them. “You’ll want to do something about _that_ ,” he said, waving a disinterested hand that encompassed John and the mess on his own stomach. 

 

John’s footsteps sounded furious as he went to grab a flannel; when he came back, his groin was bare (except for the belt, of course), and Sherlock wondered idly what he’d done with the strap-on, but didn’t particularly care.

 

When John had finished cleaning him up, Sherlock pulled him down onto the bed.

 

“You’re a bastard, you do know that,” John said as he settled with his nose against the base of Sherlock’s throat.

 

“ _Shh_ ,” Sherlock breathed against his forehead, burying his hands in John’s hair.

 

 _Just ten more minutes_ , he told himself, _let me keep him like this for just ten more minutes._  

 

It was, after all that time, over entirely too soon.

 

“I believe,” he said, when his internal clock told him the time had passed, “that I promised you a reward.”

 

The change in John’s demeanour was immediate and electric.

 

Christ, but Sherlock would miss this.

 

“The key,” he said, trying not to sound let down, “is upstairs. In your bedroom, in fact. In an envelope, between the mattress and boxspring.”

 

John pressed himself back so he could stare Sherlock in the eye.

 

“You can’t be serious,” he said, incredulous.

 

“I’m generally serious, John,” Sherlock answered gravely. “I’d go fetch it, were I you. You’ve certainly earned it.”

 

John hesitated only a moment, then moved to stand.

 

“Wait,” Sherlock said, impulsively, and John stiffened immediately, suspicious. But Sherlock merely pressed his mouth against John’s, parting his lips with his tongue. It was hard and invasive and when Sherlock released him they were both panting. “Go on then,” Sherlock said, breathless, and John nodded, and was gone.

 

Sherlock waited until he heard the sound of the creaky step, halfway up, before rolling over to pull open the drawer of his nightstand. He pulled out the cuffs; he closed one circlet around his left wrist, threaded the chain through the headboard, and with only a moment’s hesitation closed the other cuff around his right wrist.

 

John had earned it, after all.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows to wait.


End file.
